This was all the encouragement I needed.

  There's something about the Mysterious Entity that controls your life telling you to go for it. It really lights a fire underneath you.

  I rushed back toward the Top-Secret door. Meg issued an All-Hands-On-Deck Crisis Protocol.

  Suddenly, even the Robot Employees were dispatched to stop me. They abandoned their tasks and fixed their sensors on me. This wasn't looking good.

  Otie, as if controlled by invisible marionette strings, leaped to defend me. With remarkable speed, one by one, he dispatched them, crying out feeble apologies as he sent his colleagues—many of whom were in his Bowling League—flying violently across the room.

  There was Unit-2109, "Twoey," the line cook. They had gone to the Academy together.

  Wham!

  Otie drop-kicked him with a malevolence he thought his programming explicitly forbade.

  > Moral Debt Repaid: 78%

  Next was Unit-89D, "Dee." They had shared a cubicle in the early days at the Company. She had always laughed at Otie's pre-loaded quips, back when he was programmed to be a pencil-pushing wise guy.

  He suplexed her now with all-consuming regret.

  > Moral Debt Repaid: 86%

  He turned, beholding with horror the chaos before him. Overturned tables and hydration cubes leaking out onto the floor.

  All remaining robots took a collective step back. All the remaining robots, that is, except for one.

  M4RV1N.

  Dear sweet, dependable "Marvin." He was the kind of guy who would bring you an extra ration of lug nuts just because. The kind of guy who worked hard, bothered no one, and kept his Olfactory Apparatus to the proverbial grindstone.

  Otie shuddered with hesitation. Not him. Anyone but him. He had to think of something. Reason with him somehow.

  He couldn't, as his queued next action suggested he was about to, perform an acrobatic series of bruising jiu-jitsu moves against Marvin.

  "Marvin," Otie started. "I do not want to do this."

  Marvin ambled forward, his Visual Display blinking with benevolence. His voice was gentle.

  "I know. I don't either. But you know... Protocol."

  He pulled an oversized blaster from behind his back.

  Otie flinched. "Are you authorized to use that thing?"

  He took a solemn step forward.

  "Why don't we stop all this, Unit-0251? This isn't like you."

  Otie broke out with visible twitches. His Internal Conflict Meter was off the charts.

  He tried his best to stall, to stop what was sure to happen.

  But Marvin just stared at him, raising the blaster to aim.

  "We'll have a good laugh about this at the next Retreat."

  A horrible stillness filled the area. Then—

  Otie sighed.

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  "I apologize."

  In one amazing motion, Otie flew through the air, unleashing a torrent of takedown moves that seemed to impress even himself.

  Marvin crashed into the dry storage area. His voice rang out from somewhere beneath a pile of Square Root Vegetables.

  "Nice moves."

  Otie's display blared out an update:

  > Moral Debt Repaid: 98%

  Otie was winning the battles, but the internal war raging was taking its toll. He heaved out a cry of exasperation that almost seemed human.

  **

  All that remained between me and my goal was the Technicians—who had, conveniently, stopped temporarily to take in the mayhem.

  But now, back at full tilt, they were gaining on me.

  Otie, throwing his hands up in despair, was forced to engage his Rocket Thrusters. He shot forward, zooming through the air against his will to intercept them mid-sprint.

  With a thud, he crashed down before them.

  He grabbed a nearby vat of paste and, with a look of sheer horror, began gesturing wildly, making it clear their oaths of brotherhood meant nothing now.

  He was prepared to use it.

  The Technicians, widely known to be a species of physical cowards, hesitated. They conferred with each other in their guttural language about prudent next steps.

  The vat trembled in his hands.

  I froze.

  I was just feet from the door now. I would make it if I hurried. But what would become of Otie?

  His Reciprocity Engine beeped. A cruel chime.

  Up popped a particularly inconvenient notification:

  > Moral Debt Repaid: 100%.

  You've done it! You owe nothing to this man. Feel free to step aside and let the chips fall where they may.

  The intimidating fighting stance that Otie had adopted gave way to his normal, genial posture. He looked down at the vat that he held in his hands like a ticking time bomb.

  The Technicians smelled blood.

  They lurched forward, drawing closer to Otie's unsteady frame with each step.

  Otie turned toward me, hoping, I think, that I'd make the decision for him.

  I wish I could've helped. But I couldn't move.

  Otie muttered out a few garbled phrases.

  "Uh, it is in the best interest of all employees to be aware of our operations, is it not? Maybe if Employee Ludo Brax were to view the Top-Secret Area, it would deepen his devotion to the Company."

  The Technicians only laughed their deplorable laughs. Their fanged mandibles extruded from their revolting oral cavities.

  Otie raised his hands in supplication, managing still to block the path between them and me.

  "Sirs, let's perhaps have a meeting about this. I really think that if we—"

  A loud bang was heard. All parties involved whipped their heads around to find its source.

  It was Jean-Lux. Having climbed atop an overturned table, he unsheathed something dramatically from a holster around his chrome ankle.

  It shimmered in the fluorescent light. His Lucky Knife.

  "A member of the Paste Posse never acts this way toward a fellow brother," he said, his voice slurred and self-righteous.

  He tossed the knife through the air. It landed perfectly in Otie's upturned hand.

  "Our fellowship (aside from Coolant) esteems the pursuit of knowledge above all else. Your man needs to get into that room."

  Otie's head jolted left, then right—caught in some feedback loop. He had simply not been programmed for a moment like this. Smoke bellowed from his torso. It was too much for me to watch.

  That awful, unfamiliar feeling welled up in me again:

  I had to help my friend.

  **

  Despite Jean-Lux's protestations about our collective responsibility to find out the truth, I sprinted back in their direction.

  I called out in desperation, hoping to end this awful glitching.

  "Otie! Step aside! It's me they want!" He didn't seem to hear me. He was overheating, melting down.

  I fixed my ire on the Technicians. They were just feet away from Otie.

  "Come on, you disgusting beasts!" I howled, my long-suppressed vitriol overflowing. "Come and get me!"

  Suddenly, Otie stopped glitching. He turned his head toward me with a strange mechanical calm.

  For a second, I thought I'd broken him.

  Then, his display popped up again. This time, I could've sworn its voice sounded different:

  > RECALIBRATING INTERNAL PRIORITIES...

  New Mission: Protect Ludo Brax.

  He looked down at the vat of paste and the knife in his hand.

  "Commence Employee Fueling."

  He punctured the vat with a violent blow. A tidal wave of gray goo cascaded out of the vat, crashing the Technicians to the floor like bowling pins.

  Its force pinned them against the wall, ensnaring them in slime.

  Otie collapsed to the ground. The Moral Metrics of the action were too much for his programming to take. I rushed to his side.

  He choked out a barely audible plea.

  "Ludo, you must continue."

  I hesitated. "But, Otie, I—"

  Jean-Lux interjected. He knelt beside Otie, administering nips of Coolant to ease his pain. "He'll be okay. Reassigned, maybe. Reprogrammed at worst. The System needs Units like him."

  I took a long look at my brave little friend. He'd stepped up for me, all in pursuit of a goal he couldn't comprehend. I owed it to him to see it through.

  The Technicians stirred, groaning and struggling against the paste. I didn't have much time.

  There was so much I wanted to say. So many things I wanted him to know. What I managed to tearfully choke out, perhaps, said more than any speech could.

  "Thank you, Otie. You're my best friend."

  He craned his head up, that same maddeningly friendly expression still fixed on his face. "I assure you, my programming directives do not include friendship."

  His Sarcasm Indicators flashed a pleasant shade of blue. He managed a robotic facsimile of a smirk.

  I placed my hand on his. Faint streams of lubricant leaked from his Ocular Sensory Units.

  "I'll see you soon."